


passed down like folk songs

by talkwordytome



Series: Emily-verse (Ratched) [1]
Category: Ratched (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, Lesbian Moms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27790990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkwordytome/pseuds/talkwordytome
Summary: Mildred presses her ear to Gwendolyn’s chest. She counts fifteen heartbeats before she speaks again. “Emily,” she says.“Emily,” Gwendolyn repeats. She squeezes Mildred’s hand.“It’s a beautiful name,” Mildred says, “and very old-fashioned.”in which Mildred Ratched and Gwendolyn Briggs adopt a little girl. Their first year together, snapshot style.
Relationships: Gwendolyn Briggs & Emily (original character), Gwendolyn Briggs/Mildred Ratched, Mildred Ratched & Emily (original character)
Series: Emily-verse (Ratched) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2036965
Comments: 52
Kudos: 105





	passed down like folk songs

**Author's Note:**

> folks, this was going to be 5,000 words and then suddenly it was 15,000. It was also only going to cover the first ~3 months of Emily's adoption, but then it turned into the whole first year. What can ya do?! Muses work in mysterious ways.
> 
> title comes from the song "seven" by taylor swift.
> 
> TW for subtle references to child abuse/neglect.
> 
> Rated Teen for a few sexual references and one brief sex scene.
> 
> This is truly so long and winding and unwieldy so hopefully people who are not me enjoy it!
> 
> A HUGE thank-you to wildnessbecomesyou for letting me rattle off ideas for this at her via tumblr messenger. you are the best, as always.
> 
> this fic begins in spring of 1953 and ends in early summer 1954.
> 
> I head canon that after Mexico Gwendolyn and Mildred moved to NY state, near NYC but still outside of it, so that is where this fic takes place.

It’s late, nearly half-past three, but Mildred isn’t sleeping. She knows Gwendolyn isn’t either. She’s too still; her breath is too deliberately even. Mildred sighs and rolls over. She cups the nape of Gwendolyn’s neck and nuzzles her nose into her hair. 

“Are you awake?” Mildred whispers.

The sheets rustle as Gwendolyn shifts. “You know I am,” she murmurs. 

Mildred hooks her chin over Gwendolyn’s shoulder. “I can’t sleep,” she says. “My stomach is very…” she wriggles the fingers on her right hand.

“Mm,” Gwendolyn says. “My stomach is a bit,” she imitates Mildred’s gesture, “too.”

Mildred presses her ear to Gwendolyn’s chest. She counts fifteen heartbeats before she speaks again. “Emily,” she says.

“Emily,” Gwendolyn repeats. She squeezes Mildred’s hand.

“It’s a beautiful name,” Mildred says, “and very old-fashioned.”

“Yes,” Gwendolyn says. She runs her fingers through Mildred’s hair, and Mildred preens.

“And eight is a good age,” Mildred continues, “or at least that’s what everyone keeps telling us.”

“I liked being eight,” Gwendolyn agrees. “I was about eight when Beatrice was born.”

“The room is ready, isn’t it?” Mildred asks, half sitting up on her elbows. “I know we already put the sheets on the bed, but do you think we should take them off to iron them one more time? I’d hate for anything to look messy, though I can’t imagine she’ll mind--”

“Mildred,” Gwendolyn interrupts softly. Her hand stills in Mildred’s hair. “The sheets are perfect exactly as they are.”

Mildred lies back down. She tucks herself into the frame of Gwendolyn’s body. Anxiety, hot and insistent, rises like smoke in her throat. “What if she hates us?” she whispers.

“She won’t,” Gwendolyn says, decisive and certain even as she falls back to sleep.

Mildred worries the edge of Gwendolyn’s nightgown between her fingers. “How do you know?” she asks. 

“Mildred,” Gwendolyn says, groggy and exasperated and affectionate, all at once, “who in their right mind could ever possibly hate you?”

* * *

It was Gwendolyn’s idea, suggested one morning over breakfast as casually as she might announce she wanted sugar in her coffee instead of cream.

“What if we adopted?”

Mildred choked on her oatmeal. “Excuse me?” she asked once she regained her breath.

“What if we adopted?” Gwendolyn repeated patiently. Upon an incredulous look from Mildred, she rolled her eyes. “It’s not _such_ a ridiculous notion, is it? I think we’d make wonderful mothers.”

Mildred wiped daintily at the corners of her mouth. “Even if that were true,” she began, shooting Gwendolyn a look when she opened her mouth to argue, “is adoption even a logistical possibility for...for women like...like us?”

Gwendolyn tapped her fork against her chin as she thought. “I’m not sure,” she admitted, “but we could figure something out. Or Trevor could.”

Mildred’s brow furrowed. “Trevor?” she asked.

“He’s a lawyer,” Gwendolyn shrugged. She sipped her coffee. “Why not?”

Mildred stirred her oatmeal but didn’t speak. In fact, neither of them did for the rest of breakfast. Neither of them minded silence, and often found comfort in it, but something about this particular silence left Mildred uneasy. She stood. She rinsed her oatmeal bowl and set her coffee mug in the sink. She turned off the water and braced herself against the counter. She closed her eyes and counted to ten. She turned around and considered Gwendolyn. 

“I will think about it,” she said, “and that’s all. For now.”

Gwendolyn beamed. She stood and walked over to Mildred, then swept her into a hug. She kissed her, long and sweet and languid. “Darling,” Gwendolyn said, “that is so much more than enough.” 

* * *

Gwen is packing a few last minute items into the car, and Mildred is still in the bedroom, presumably finding a hat that matches her outfit.

She sits down at their vanity and sighs. She scrutinizes herself in the mirror, searching, perhaps, for something in her face that tells her, _you are right to do this and ready for this_. She doesn’t find it. She hears Gwen’s voice: _or maybe you’re just looking for the wrong things_. Mildred nearly smiles, the corners of her mouth twitching.

She opens the old wooden jewelry box that Gwendolyn’s father carved for her when she was only a little girl. She takes out the bottom compartment, their own trapdoor, and removes a photograph. The corners are tattered, and the glossy print is stained with fingerprints from being handled and held too many times.

The photo is a plain one: no background, no props, no special lighting. The subject--a small girl--is in the center of the frame, but her gaze falls somewhere past the photographer’s shoulder. She has curly hair cut into a tidy bob and eyes nearly the size and shape of silver dollars. She’s not smiling. Her hands are clasped in front of her, and even though you cannot tell unless you look closely, her nails are bitten to the quick.

Mildred always, always looks closely.

She graces her thumb over the little girl’s hair. She replaces the photo in its hiding place. She takes a deep breath.

It’s time to leave. 

* * *

“I think it’s a marvelous idea.”

Mildred dropped the plate she was washing back into the soapy water. Gwendolyn placed a reassuring hand on the small of her back. 

“You do?” Gwendolyn asked. “Really?”

“Yes,” Trevor said. He put down the dish towel and kissed Gwendolyn’s hand. “Without a doubt.”

Gwendolyn handed Mildred another dirty plate, which she began to silently scrub. “But how would we go about it?” Gwendolyn asked. “We--that is, Mildred and I--wouldn’t possibly be allowed to adopt, would we? I think we can agree that even the most open minded agencies likely frown upon same-sex parents.”

Trevor rocked back and forth on his heels as he thought. “No, you won’t be able to do it together officially,” he admitted, “but I think there can be ways around that, certainly.”

“Gwendolyn--” Mildred broke in anxiously, but Gwendolyn shushed her.

“We could try, you and I,” Gwendolyn said, “but--”

“--the race aspect,” Trevor finished, reading Gwendolyn’s mind, as was his wont, “though Andrew--”

“--yes! And I? Or Mildred--”

“Andrew and Mildred! The paperwork would be the only real issue; they’d need a marriage certificate--”

“We could falsify that, though, surely--”

Mildred shoved the plate she was holding at Gwendolyn, but Gwendolyn wasn’t able to catch it. It fell to the floor and shattered, loudly, into dozens of tiny pieces. Mildred’s hands flew up to her ears at the noise and she fled from the room.

“I’ll talk to her,” Mildred heard Gwendolyn murmur as she stumbled up the stairs.

Mildred closed the bedroom door without locking it and curled up under the bedclothes. She squeezed her eyes shut against the tears threatening to fall. There was a soft knock. “Sweetheart?” came Gwendolyn’s voice. “It’s me.”

Mildred waited a beat before answering. “Come in,” she said, her voice muffled by pillows.

Mildred felt the mattress shift and she knew Gwendolyn was sitting next to her. “Hi,” Gwendolyn murmured. “Can we talk about what happened just now, in the kitchen?”

Mildred sniffled. She sat up but refused to meet Gwendolyn’s eyes. “I can’t do it,” she said.

Gwendolyn cocked her head to the side. “What, pretend that you’re married to Andrew?” she asked. “That’s fine, sweets, I can do it; I just thought it would hurt _you_ if I did, and it won’t bother _me_ a whit if it’s _you_ doing the pretending.”

Mildred shook her head. _You’re not listening_ , she thought, but instead she said, “No, I can’t do _it_.” She exhaled a shaky breath. “I can’t…I can’t have a child. Be trusted with one. I just can’t, Gwendolyn.”

“Mildred,” Gwendolyn said, and her voice was so rich with sympathy and love that it nearly made Mildred feel ill, “why ever not?”

Mildred curled her hands into fists tight enough to leave purple, half-moon shaped grooves in her palms. She bit her bottom lip. She struggled to get the words through her throat, which suddenly felt narrow as a pinhole. “I’ll hurt them,” she said. She closed her eyes as tears finally spilled down her cheeks. “I’ll _hurt_ them, Gwendolyn.”

Gwendolyn made a sound like the wind was knocked out of her. “Darling,” she tried, but Mildred curled into a small ball and began to sob.

“I’ll hurt them,” she repeated, and it was painful, but in the way it was painful to clean a wound with antiseptic; something that purified as well as burned. “I’ll hurt them.”

Gwendolyn rubbed her back and whispered soothing comforts. She waited until Mildred’s breath began to slow; until her shoulders stopped shaking. She moved, tried to stand so she could get Mildred tissues, but Mildred whined and wrapped her arms tightly around Gwendolyn’s waist.

“That’s not-- _they’re_ not…” Mildred tried, faltered, and started again. “I don’t want to be who…who they were.” She didn’t elaborate, but Gwendolyn knew. Gwendolyn always knew.

Gwendolyn cupped Mildred’s face in her hands. “You won’t,” she said fiercely. 

Mildred clutched needfully at the silk of Gwendolyn’s blouse. “How do you know?” she whispered.

Gwendolyn graced her thumb over Mildred’s lips. “Because,” she said, “I love you.”

Mildred closed her eyes. She tried to believe her. She tried to imagine it could ever be that simple. 

* * *

Her name is Emily. They meet her on an unusually chilly morning in early June. She’s eight years old and small for her age. Her clothes are as familiar to Mildred as if they are a second skin. Neat and practical, they exist purely for function, not style: a starched white blouse with a Peter Pan collar, a navy jumper, white knee socks, scuffed Oxfords. She is carrying a single black valise with a gold colored clasp. Her hair, curly and brown, is brushed and clean. She stares at Mildred and Gwendolyn uncertainly; not quite suspicious, but not quite happy to see them, either. Somewhere in-between. Mildred remembers that strange, unnerving space all too well. She spent the better part of her life there.

Anna’s hands are resting on Emily’s shoulders. She smiles at Gwendolyn and Mildred. She pets Emily’s hair and gives her a gentle nudge forward. “Go on,” she whispers, “introduce yourself. They’re so excited to meet you.”

Emily takes a few tentative steps towards Gwendolyn and Mildred. She sucks in a sharp breath. “Hello,” she says, her high little voice polite and overly-formal, as Mildred knows it’s been trained to be. “My name is Emily. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” She sticks out her hand for a shake. Mildred’s heart clenches painfully.

Gwendolyn bends her knees so she’s at Emily’s eye level. She accepts Emily’s hand. “Hi, Emily,” she says, her eyes soft. “I’m Gwendolyn, and this is Mildred. We are so happy that you’re coming to live with us.”

Mildred gives Emily a pained, tentative smile, but says nothing. This is what she has to offer, all she has to offer, and she cannot escape the feeling that she’s coming up woefully short. 

“Is this all you have?” Gwendolyn asks, gesturing at the valise. 

Emily blushes and a flash of panic crosses her face. Mildred winces. She knows that Gwendolyn didn’t mean anything by the question, of course she didn’t, but she can still acutely remember the shame of realizing just how meagre her possessions were. Gwendolyn, she thinks, has never known that feeling in her life. She realizes that there are many things Gwendolyn won’t understand about Emily.

“Yes,” Emily says anxiously. She shifts her weight from one leg to the other. “I’m sorry, I know it’s not much, I--”

“It’s perfect,” Mildred says smoothly, speaking for the first time, “because it’s yours. You’d like to keep it in the backseat with you during the drive, wouldn’t you?”

Emily nods, wide-eyed. She looks back at Anna, who nods, too. “Go on,” she says. “You can get settled while Gwendolyn, Mildred, and I talk, alright?”

Emily nods again. Halfway to the car she stops, then rushes towards Anna and gives her a short, tight hug. She whispers something to Anna, who whispers back, and then drops a kiss on top of Emily’s head. Emily gives Gwendolyn and Mildred one final, searching glance before she clambers into the car.

Anna hugs Gwendolyn, then Mildred. “You’ll be wonderful,” she tells them. 

Gwendolyn turns towards the car and raises her eyebrows at Mildred expectantly. “You go on,” Mildred says. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

Gwendolyn’s eyes go from Mildred to Anna and back again. She nods, understanding. Anna touches Mildred’s arm and smiles. “She reminds me of you,” she says, once Gwendolyn is out of earshot. “Emily, I mean. _So_ bright, and entirely too independent. And quite talkative, once you’ve gotten to know her.”

Mildred gives Anna a desperate, terrified look. Anna sighs. She wraps a comforting arm around Mildred’s shoulders, like she once did when Mildred was a girl, even though Mildred has long since surpassed Anna in height. “She’s going to adore you,” Anna says. “All she wants is to be loved. I’ll bet that doesn’t sound familiar at all.”

Mildred smiles, and it is at once watery and wry. “No,” she says, “not even a little.”

She hugs Anna, who still smells comfortingly like vanilla and powder and laundry soap, even after all these years. She opens the passenger door of the car. She shuts it behind her, ready for whatever happens next. 

* * *

In the end, it wasn’t Andrew, or Trevor, or even Gwen who did the hardest work.

It was Anna.

It was Anna who, when Mildred called and nervously explained she and Gwendolyn were beginning to consider the possibility of adoption, immediately began formulating a plan.

It was Anna who sent Mildred and Gwendolyn dozens of adoption files to read through, already annotated in her neat, precise handwriting.

It was Anna who fielded endless tearful, late night phone calls from Mildred, filled with questions she was too afraid, too ashamed, to ask Gwendolyn.

It was Anna who gave them recommendations for where to go to buy furniture, clothes, books, toys.  
It was Anna who falsified the marriage certificate for Mildred and Andrew and ensured it was impeccable beyond suspicion.

And it was Anna who finally told Mildred exactly what she needed to hear.

“You’re not going to hurt her,” Anna said during one of their many calls. “You’re _not_ , Mildred.”

“How do you know?” Mildred hiccoughed. “Gwendolyn keeps saying that, too, and I don’t understand how the two of you can be so certain.”

“Sweetheart,” Anna said, “I know you won’t hurt her because you stopped to ask whether it was a possibility. Because you care enough to wonder, and to worry. Do you think any of the people who hurt you ever, even once, stopped to ask themselves those questions?”

“I don’t know,” Mildred whispered.

“You do know,” Anna countered patiently, “and they didn’t. And I will be so sorry for the rest of my life that they didn’t, Mildred, but _you_ , my love, are asking those difficult questions. _That_ is how I know.” 

* * *

The drive home isn’t long, only about 30 minutes or so, but they decide to stop for lunch on the way. _To celebrate_ , Gwendolyn says, hopeful and wanting, with a bit of forced cheer. 

“Lunch sounds nice,” Emily says. She smiles, but it’s wan. “Thank you, Ms. Gwendolyn.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Gwendolyn says, “you don’t need to call me that. You can call me--” she hesitates when Mildred shoots her a warning look, sensing that Gwendolyn was about to say _Mother_. Gwendolyn seems alarmed by the urgency, but she sighs, and follows Mildred’s lead.

“Gwendolyn,” Gwendolyn course corrects. “You can just call me Gwendolyn. Would that be alright?”

“Ye- _es_ ,” Emily says, a bit uncertain. “Gwendolyn will be fine, I think.”

“And you can call Mildred, well, Mildred, of course,” Gwendolyn says with a little laugh. She peers into the rearview mirror. “Did Anna explain at all about our…our situation?”

Emily nods. Her eyes are wide and serious. “She said that you’re married, but not exactly,” she says slowly, “and that you love each other very much, and if anyone says it’s wrong that _they’re_ the ones who are wrong.” 

She pauses and fidgets. “She also said,” she continues shyly, “that you…that you will love _me_ very much.”

Gwendolyn’s eyes flick back up to the rearview mirror. “Of course we’ll love you,” she says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She glances at Mildred, confused and surprised, and perhaps more than a little hurt, at Emily’s uncertainty.

Emily looks less than reassured. Mildred turns in her seat and faces Emily. She extends a hand and waits to see if Emily will take it. When she does, Mildred speaks. “I know that it’s very scary,” she says. She rubs her thumb over the back of Emily’s hand. “It’s alright if you’re unsure what you think of us so soon after meeting us. We’ll just have to try our best to help you feel safe, won’t we?”

Emily smiles--a genuine one--and it’s like the sun breaking through clouds after days and days of rain. “Yes,” Emily says, “I’d like that very much.” 

* * *

If Mildred could only use one word to describe Emily’s new bedroom, it would be _pink_. If she were permitted two, they would be _pink_ and _princess_. She’s not entirely sure if she likes it, but Gwendolyn was so excited to prepare it that Mildred hadn’t had the heart to express any contrary opinions.

The walls are covered in paper patterned with little rosettes. Gwendolyn and Mildred hung it themselves one rainy afternoon not long after they found out the petition to adopt Emily had been approved. The comforter is the color of a ballet slipper, and on top of it sit dolls and teddy bears of varying sizes. The curtains on windows are white and gauzy, and so is the canopy that hangs above the bed. In the far corner of the room there’s a bookshelf, filled to bursting, and a child-sized armchair with a ruffled skirt that Emily can sit in while she reads. In another corner there is a delicate vanity and an ornate mirror. The final touch is the enormous dollhouse--nearly half as tall as Emily herself--that has working lights and hand-made doll furniture.

Emily stands in the doorway, examining all of this with an inscrutable expression on her face. Gwendolyn and Mildred stand behind her; Gwendolyn is anxious, and Mildred is less so. “Well?” Gwendolyn asks, and Mildred knows it’s because she cannot help herself. “What do you think?”

Emily swallows. “It’s--this is all…for me?” she asks.

Mildred can tell: it’s entirely too much, entirely too soon. Her mind jumps, unbidden, to a beautiful mansion, bowls of ice cream, a genuine puppet theater in the basement. She feels her breath go shallow. She rubs her fingers against her clavicle, back and forth, an old self-soothing ritual. A way to stay present, here and now. 

She wonders, briefly, where Emily’s mind has gone. The dark places her brain visits if she’s not being careful enough. Her stomach clenches, and suddenly she is back where she belongs.

She steps forward, closer to Emily but not so close that she’ll be touching her. “Emily,” she says quietly, so Emily will know that she’s there.

Emily’s posture loosens ever so slightly. Mildred takes a few more steps. She places her hand on Emily’s shoulder, and keeps it there when Emily does not tense or flinch from her. “You know,” Mildred says, “there are lots of places here where you can sleep. It’s a big house. Why don’t we take you on a tour, and you can see if there’s somewhere that feels better?”

Mildred takes Emily’s hand, and nods for Gwendolyn to take the other. They form a small chain, Emily between them. “Come on,” Mildred says. “Let’s go look.” 

* * *

“How did you know what to do?”

It’s a little after 11:00. Gwendolyn is sitting at the vanity, applying lotion to her hands. Mildred is in bed, glasses on, reading. Emily is tucked into bed--after some deliberation, she had eventually decided she preferred the room they’d made for her--and presumably asleep. Or at least doing a very convincing job of pretending to be. Mildred can still remember how it would take her weeks, sometimes, to teach her body to match the rhythms of a new home.

“What do you mean?” Mildred asks. She lays her book face down on her lap. “What did I do?”

“In the car,” Gwendolyn says, “and in her bedroom. The way you talked to her, how reassured it made her; everything I said to her just made her feel _worse_.” 

She sounds frustrated, but Mildred knows it’s not directed at her. Gwendolyn is, by nature, a problem solver; a mediator. There are few things that eat at her quite like a conflict she cannot correctly diffuse on her first try.

Mildred is silent for a moment. She marks her page with a bookmark and sets the book aside. “Well,” she eventually says, “I suppose I just…I asked myself what I wanted someone to say to me when I was that age. And I…I said it to Emily. That’s all.”

She’s being terribly ineloquent. She shakes her head, annoyed at herself. “It’s silly,” she says, “though it seemed to work, more or less.”

“ _No_ ,” Gwendolyn says, so adamantly that Mildred startles.

“No?” Mildred repeats, vaguely injured.

Gwendolyn stands and walks quickly to Mildred. “I mean that you’re not silly,” she breathes. She grabs Mildred’s hands. “You, Mildred Ratched, are the most brilliant and wonderful creature I have ever had the fortune to meet.”

Mildred shakes her head and casts her eyes away from Gwendolyn. “I’m not brilliant,” she says, laughing softly at the notion. “What an absurd thing to say, Gwendolyn, honestly.”

“ _Mildred_ ,” she says in the most firm tone she can muster, “you _are_.” She pushes a lock of Mildred’s hair behind her ear. “I am so glad I have you.”

Mildred’s blush reaches down past her clavicles. “I love you,” she murmurs. She graces her hand over Gwendolyn’s face. “My person.”  


* * *

“Gwendolyn? Mildred?”

Mildred sits up in bed almost immediately, Emily’s small form swimming before her as she tries to blink away sleep. “Emily?” she says blurrily. “What is it?”

Gwendolyn, always slower to rouse, is stirring next to Mildred. Emily is sucking her left thumb--she is too old for it, but Mildred recalls with a sudden lurch the way she chewed her own hair until she was nearly 14--and staring at them. Her eyes are wide and luminous. She’s wearing one of the pajama sets that Gwendolyn bought for her, a pink flannel nightgown that’s trimmed with real Irish lace. She shifts from one leg to the other but says nothing.

“Emily?” Mildred says again, panic thumping insistently in her chest. “What is it? What do you need?”

“I--I’m sorry,” Emily stutters, bare feet tripping backwards in her haste to leave. “I shouldn’t have come, I--I shouldn’t--I didn’t mean--”

“Shhh, shhh,” Gwendolyn soothes. She climbs out of bed and goes to Emily, Mildred following close behind. 

Something deep inside of Mildred constricts. This little girl, this baby, dressed in the pink flannel nightgown. She stills herself against the panic and palms Emily’s forehead. She discovers that it’s perfectly cool. She’s relieved but not satisfied. She appraises Emily with a nurse’s eye, searching for what could’ve brought her to their room so late at night.

The pattern of her pillowcase is indented on Emily’s cheek, and she has angry red marks running up and down her neck, like she’s been scratching at it in her sleep. She wraps her arms around torso like she’s giving herself a hug. Her mouth quivers. “I had a bad dream,” she whispers from around her thumb, then winces, like she’s waiting to be punished for her confession. “I’m sorry, please don’t be angry.”

Gwendolyn opens her mouth, and Mildred can practically see the words forming: _of course we’re not angry_. She puts a gentle, warning hand on Gwendolyn’s elbow. _Wait_.

“I know all about nightmares,” Mildred says gravely.

Emily sniffles. She turns her enormous eyes onto Mildred. “Really?” she asks. The thumb comes out of her mouth.

Mildred nods. “Would you like to sleep in here?” she asks.

Emily nods, hesitates, but then nods again. She crawls gingerly onto the bed. She looks particularly tiny when she’s under the covers. “Middle?” she asks. “Between you?”

“I can’t think of anything we’d like more,” Gwendolyn says, settling into her own spot.

Emily is asleep within minutes. Mildred follows not long after, and for the first time in ages her sleep is undisturbed. 

* * *

A week goes by, then two. School ended for the summer just before Emily arrived to stay, so they do their best to establish a routine within the empty hours. Awake by 9:00, breakfast by 10:00, playtime until lunch, a rest in the afternoon, dinner, reading or television, bedtime. Repeat, repeat, repeat. In spite of it, Emily often seems at loose ends. Mildred grows used to walking into a room and finding Emily standing in the center of it, staring dreamily into space, a habit that concerns Gwendolyn deeply.

“Where does she go, do you think, when that happens?” she asks one Saturday as they make lunch. “Where is her mind? Is there something wrong? Is she alright?”

Mildred looks out the kitchen window. Emily is wandering through the backyard, gathering armfuls of wildflowers and chattering to herself. She seems perfectly content. Mildred smiles.

“She’s not used to having things to do,” Mildred says. “Or, well, things she _wants_ to do, and nothing that she _has_ to do.”

Gwendolyn’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?” she asks.

Mildred neatly spreads mustard across a slice of bread. “She has toys, and books, and a television,” she explains, “but no chores. She’s accustomed to--to directives. Not choices. And she’s never had _things_ to play with, to touch, only ever what she could create in her mind.”

She finishes putting together the sandwich and slices it in half. She plates it. She pops a slice of the apple Gwendolyn has been cutting into her mouth. 

“Give her time,” Mildred says once she’s swallowed, then kisses Gwendolyn on the cheek. “She’ll come around.”

Gwendolyn kisses Mildred back. She sighs, and then smiles. “Okay,” she says. “I believe you.” 

* * *

Mildred is surprised to discover how much she enjoys spending the days at home with Emily.

It began as a temporary leave of absence, just until autumn; it seemed unfair to leave Emily with a nanny or a babysitter so soon after adopting her. Between the two of them, Gwendolyn indisputably made more money; enough to comfortably support them and then some. Mildred would go back to work in September when Emily started school. That was the plan, and it was a good one.

Except, Mildred finds that there is plenty at home to keep her busy, just as much as there is at the hospital, and she likes the home work more. She likes tidying the house, ensuring that everything is organized, that each item is stowed away in its proper home. She learns to cook: simple recipes at first, mostly casseroles and stews, but advances quickly to baked goods, meats, and creative combinations of vegetables. She especially enjoys being with Emily, even when they aren’t actively doing something together; it’s lovely, peaceful, to exist in a shared universe, to orbit without touching.

One afternoon, Mildred has just finished vacuuming the upstairs hallway. She’s about to do the same to Emily’s room, but stops short when she sees that Emily is in it. She’s sitting on the floor, directly across from her dollhouse. She’s not playing with it, though. At least she doesn’t look to be. She’s staring at it intently, so intently that she doesn’t hear Mildred in her doorway.

“Emily?” Mildred says softly. 

Emily jumps, just a little. She turns around, her anxious expression softening when she sees that it’s Mildred. “Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” Mildred says. She walks into the room and sits down on Emily’s bed. “What are you doing, sweets?”

Emily blushes, and for once Mildred can’t quite figure out precisely why. “Oh,” Emily says. She smooths the skirt of her dress. “Well, I--I’m playing with it. Sort of.” 

“Sort of?” Mildred asks. She leaves the bed and sits, cross-legged, on the floor next to Emily.

Emily wraps a hand around a curl and tugs. Mildred gently reaches out a hand to still her. Emily sighs. “I--it’s so beautiful,” she explains. “I’m afraid I’ll break it.”

Mildred nods. “Would you like me to help?” she asks.

Emily goes to grab at that same curl, but stops just before she gets to it. Her hand falls into her lap. Mildred smiles. _Good girl_.

“How?” Emily asks.

“How about,” Mildred says, “you can tell me where you want the dolls to go, and I can move them. How does that sound?”

Emily smiles, small at first but quickly growing into a grin. “Yes,” she says. “Yes, please.” 

* * *

Emily’s birthday is on July 17th, a Saturday, and Gwendolyn has her heart set on surprising Emily with a trip into the city to shop for new clothes.

“My mother did it for Beatrice and me when we were girls, and it was always the most exciting day of the year, even better than Christmas,” she explains to Mildred one evening as she brushes her hair, a few days before the planned trip. “And besides, it’s practical; she needs new clothes, Mildred. She’s beginning to outgrow the ones we bought for her before she came. The poor thing is finally filling out a little.”

Mildred is apprehensive. She worries about how Emily will react to being surprised, and she has a feeling Emily won’t necessarily enjoy being the center of attention in the manner Gwendolyn has planned. She chews her lower lip. “I don’t know, Gwendolyn,” she murmurs. “Do you think she’ll like it?”

“Well, why wouldn’t she?” Gwendolyn says crossly. “It’s a birthday excursion into New York City, Mildred; what sort of a little girl _wouldn’t_ like that?”

Mildred knows that Gwendolyn doesn’t intend to be short-tempered, but these last few weeks have been difficult. Work has been stressful for Gwendolyn, and she’s struggling with how long it’s taking Emily to adjust. Mildred, for her part, struggles to not feel hurt at how little Gwendolyn sometimes seems to understand. _She’s just like me_ , words Mildred thinks but never says. _Can’t you see that?_ Why _can’t you see that?_

An angry flush colors Mildred’s chest, but she keeps her voice level when she says, “She’s not an ordinary little girl, Gwendolyn, and you know that.”

“And she’ll _never_ be one,” Gwendolyn snaps, out of patience entirely, “if you have your way and keep treating her like she’s made of glass. Can you blame me for wanting things to be normal for just one day?”

Mildred’s eyes fill with bitter tears at the subtext in Gwendolyn’s words. “I’m _so_ sorry,” she hisses, “that we can’t be _normal_ enough for you. By all means, let’s go on this trip. I’ll try my best to make sure that Emily and I don’t do anything peculiar because heaven forbid we _embarrass_ you.”

She flicks off her bedside table lamp and curls up beneath the covers. She hears Gwendolyn sigh. “That’s not what I meant--” she begins, but Mildred stops her.

“Yes,” she says flatly, “you did. You said exactly what you meant, Gwendolyn, and it’s ridiculous to pretend anything to the contrary.”

The days leading up to the trip are tense, and Mildred can tell Emily picks up on it. She’s uneasy, quieter even than usual, tiptoeing through the house and barely picking at her meals. Gwendolyn compensates by being chattier, and Mildred compensates by leaving Emily to her own devices. She’s not sure which is helping. She’s not sure either of them are.

The 17th dawns bright and sunny; already hot, even first thing in the morning. Mildred and Gwendolyn have hardly been speaking since their fight, but they put up a united front to wake Emily with cake and _happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Emily-yyy, happy birthday to you_. Emily blows out the candles with Gwendolyn’s help. She scrapes the icing off her slice and eats that, but leaves the pastry untouched. She opens the few gifts that Gwendolyn and Mildred have already purchased: a Slinky, a _Peter Pan_ board game, three velvet headbands, and hardback copies of _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe_ and _The Borrowers_. She politely expresses her thanks with each parcel, and makes a neat pile out of them on her bed.

Gwendolyn claps her hands together. “We,” she says, giving Mildred a careful look, “actually have another gift for you, but we’ll have to drive to get to it. So get dressed, and make sure you wear comfortable shoes, because we’ll have to do quite a bit of walking.”

Emily looks from Mildred to Gwendolyn and back again. Mildred passes her hand over Emily’s messy, bedhead curls. “It’ll be lovely,” she says, as much a reassurance for herself as it is for Emily. “I promise.”

The only noise during the drive to the city is the radio, which Gwendolyn has on low. Gwendolyn, to her credit, makes a noble effort at conversation, but neither Mildred nor Emily are in the mood for talking. She eventually falls silent. Emily sucks her thumb in the backseat, something Mildred hasn’t seen her do in some time. She reaches for Gwendolyn’s hand, and is soothed when Gwendolyn doesn’t pull away.

They manage to find a parking spot only a few blocks from Bloomingdale’s, close enough that they won’t even have to take the subway. Emily stares, wide-eyed, at the people, the traffic, the buildings that tower hundreds of feet above her head. Mildred holds Emily’s left hand, and Gwendolyn holds the right. 

“Don’t let go of us for even a _second_ , Emily,” Gwendolyn instructs. “This city can swallow you up if you let it.”

Emily looks between Mildred and Gwendolyn, alarmed. Mildred laughs quietly, and she hopes Emily can tell it is with her, not at her. “It’s a figure of speech, sweetheart,” she says. “That’s all.”

The walk isn’t long, but they’re still sweaty and dirty by the time they get to Bloomingdale’s. They stand outside of the building, staring up at the flags that flutter weakly in the sluggish summer breeze. 

“We’re here!” Gwendolyn says brightly. “We’re taking you shopping, sweetie. My mother always did this for my little sister and I for our birthdays, and I,” she pauses, “ _we_ thought it would be fun to do that with you.” 

Emily’s grip on their hands tightens. She says nothing, not even her usual perfunctory little thank you very much. Her left hand is wiggling in Mildred’s, and Mildred knows she wishes she could put her thumb in her mouth. Mildred has a sinking feeling that something awful is on the precipice of happening, and she is helpless in its path.

They go inside the store and make their way to the children’s department. The air is crisp and smells like starched shirts and perfume. Their shoes tap on the shiny tile floors. Gwendolyn takes the lead, murmuring to herself as she pulls brightly colored dresses and playsuits off their racks. Mildred follows Gwendolyn, and Emily trails behind Mildred, their own miserable little game of following the leader. Gwendolyn asks Emily for her opinion on each item she picks, and Mildred can tell that Emily’s mute shrugs and head-shakes are beginning to frustrate her. She winces.

“Well,” Gwendolyn says, her smile strained, “I suppose you should start trying these on.” She selects a few items from the top of the pile and hands them to Emily. 

Emily holds out her arms and wordlessly accepts them. She doesn’t turn towards the changing rooms, though. Instead, she stands very, very still. She’s pale and swaying in place, and it occurs to Mildred that she might be about to faint.

“What is it, dear?” Gwendolyn asks, impatience quietly threaded through each word. It’s not her fault, and Mildred knows there’s so much more she should be doing to help, but she’s been struck just as dumb as Emily.

Emily trembles. She stares hopelessly, miserably, at Gwendolyn and Mildred. “I don’t understand what I did wrong,” she says, through tears, the first words she’s spoken since they walked inside Bloomingdale’s.

Gwendolyn is caught off-guard enough that her agitation shifts to bafflement. “What--what you did _wrong_?” she echoes.

Emily grabs a curl and pulls. “Was I bad?” she hiccoughs. “Why are you sending me away?”

Gwendolyn appears to be stranded somewhere between devastation and utter bewilderment, but Mildred, all at once, understands. 

“You’ve only been taken clothes shopping when you’re about to be placed with a new family,” she says, speaking to herself almost as much as she’s speaking to Emily.

Emily drops the clothes to the ground, and sinks down on top of them. She buries her face in her hands and sobs, hard, until she begins to practically choke on her tears. Gwendolyn has two fingers pressed to her lips. She looks for all the world like she might throw up.

Mildred sits down next to Emily on the floor and pulls her close. “Hey now,” she says, “none of that.”

She takes a handkerchief from her pocket and uses it to mop Emily’s face. She holds it to the girl’s nose and gently coerces her into blowing. “Better?” she asks, and Emily nods.

Mildred smooths the hair back from Emily’s overheated face. “I know,” she soothes. “I know what it’s like to never have a place that’s yours. To spend every moment waiting for what little you have to be taken away. I know, Emily. I do.”

She’s thought these words thousands of times, has tried to telepathically send them to Emily, but has never once said them aloud. Emily stares at her, transfixed. 

“Gwendolyn is not going anywhere,” Mildred continues. “I am not going anywhere. Our home-- _your_ home--is not going anywhere. I know you might not believe me, and that’s alright. But here’s what I will tell you, darling: I will never, ever, make a promise unless I am completely certain I can keep it. And this, Emily, is a promise I will keep.”

She looks to Gwendolyn, who is crying without making any sound. Gwendolyn nods and takes a shaky breath. “We promise, Emily,” she says. “We promise.”

They leave without buying anything. They walk back to the car. Gwendolyn and Mildred take turns carrying Emily. Emily falls sound asleep in the car as soon as they start driving, and stays asleep until they’re home. Mildred and Gwendolyn rouse her just enough to get inside, and then tuck her onto the living room sofa for a nap.

Mildred stretches and yawns. She pulls Gwendolyn into her embrace and they stay that way, rocking gently back and forth, for some time. When they break apart Gwendolyn is crying again. “I hurt her, Mildred,” she whispers.

Mildred shakes her head. “No,” she says, “you just reminded her that she’s been hurt before.”

Gwendolyn shoots her a look: _must you always be so straightforward?_ “I’m not entirely sure there’s a difference,” she sighs.

“Of course there is,” Mildred says. For someone so intelligent Gwendolyn misses the point unexpectedly often. “The people who hurt Emily meant to do it, or maybe some of them didn’t but they also didn’t care.” 

She cups Gwendolyn’s cheek in her hand. “There are mistakes,” she says, “and deliberate cruelty. And I don’t think you’re capable of being guilty of the latter.”

“Do you really think so?” Gwendolyn asks, nearly childlike in her uncertainty.

“Yes,” Mildred says firmly.

Gwendolyn yawns, then covers her mouth and blushes, embarrassed. Mildred laughs. “Come on,” she says, tugging at Gwendolyn’s hand, “I think we could _all_ use a little rest after today’s adventure.” 

* * *

August arrives, heady and slow, sweet with hydrangea and aster. The weather is almost relentlessly sunny; the sky a bright shade of azure that stretches into infinity. The month is one of the loveliest in Mildred’s memory. Every moment she has is spent in Emily’s company, Gwen’s company, or the company of both. One Sunday afternoon they go berry picking. Gwendolyn teases Emily and Mildred when they eat more than what they put in their baskets. Mildred’s sweet, juice stained lips leave pressed flower kisses on Gwendolyn’s neck.  


They have picnics in a forest clearing not far from their house. After they finish their lunch, Emily wanders, searching for four leaf clovers, something she has an innate knack for spotting. Mildred lies with her head in Gwendolyn’s lap as Gwendolyn tells her the name and properties of every flower, every leaf, every herb--a skill she learned from her father. 

They go to movies at a nearby drive-in theater: _Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, From Here to Eternity, Roman Holiday_. A few days after seeing _Holiday_ , Emily nervously asks if she can get her hair cut like Audrey Hepburn, and Gwendolyn and Mildred are more than happy to oblige her. The style becomes Emily; it accentuates the elfinness of her features, her large eyes. Gwendolyn and Mildred compliment her endlessly, until Emily is bright red and laughingly begging them to stop.

One hideously hot weekend they make an impromptu trip to the beach. They stay at a bed and breakfast right on the shoreline. Frilly and bright with sea glass decor and striped wallpaper, it’s the sort of place that in a different life Mildred would’ve thought was frivolous or overdone. Here, now, with Emily and Gwendolyn it’s the most beautiful place she’s ever seen. They listen to the sea sing as they fall asleep. 

During the day, they lie out on their pastel beach towels. Emily can’t swim, but she lets Gwendolyn hold her hand and together they wade out until the water reaches Emily’s knees. Mildred stands at the ocean’s edge, smiling from beneath her wide brimmed hat. Emily and Gwendolyn both turn becoming shades of brown; Mildred develops a truly fantastic sunburn.

At night, they wear floaty dresses and stroll up and down the boardwalk. They eat saltwater taffy and ice cream for dinner. Mildred, much to Emily’s delight, wins Emily a stuffed bear at a shooting gallery. Gwendolyn talks Mildred and Emily into riding a rollercoaster at the amusement park, and they cling to Gwendolyn, shrieking, as they fly down the hills and whip around corners. 

They eat when they’re hungry; they sleep when they’re tired. They listen to their bodies. They stop rationing pleasure like sugar during the war. Joy, they realize, is a present that’s given, not a privilege that must be earned. 

* * *

September comes and goes. The leaves turn red and gold, then yellow, then brown. They fall from the trees and make piles on the sidewalk that Emily likes to crunch through. Summer play clothes are switched out for sweaters and woolen tights and long-sleeved dresses. Emily starts the 4th grade. She doesn’t sleep a wink the night before; she climbs into bed with Mildred and Gwendolyn, too nervous to be alone. The three of them walk to the local elementary school together, Emily wearing a blue, full-skirted dress and clutching her brand new notebook to her chest. Emily’s teacher, Miss Holland, is young and pretty and enthusiastic. She has the magical ability some teachers possess to keep a class quiet without ever once raising her voice.

“She wears _pants_ ,” Emily reports breathlessly that afternoon when she gets back home, “and she lets us listen to records while we work, as long as we’re quiet.” 

Gwendolyn and Mildred worry that Emily might be behind her classmates; they’ve no idea what her schooling was like before they adopted her, and when they call Anna to ask she admits it was probably spotty at best. Miss Holland sends a note home with Emily one day at the start of October, requesting a conference. Mildred and Gwendolyn go to bed with stomachaches, expecting the worst.

The meeting is a Wednesday afternoon, just after school lets out. Gwendolyn leaves work early so she can be there, too. They find Emily sitting on a bench outside her classroom, cheerfully swinging her legs back and forth as she reads _Stuart Little_.

They introduce themselves to Miss Holland as Emily’s aunts, which pricks at Mildred, but it’s easier than the truth. Miss Holland greets them warmly and offers them tea, which Gwendolyn accepts and Mildred declines.

They sit awkwardly across from Miss Holland’s desk in chairs designed for little bodies. Miss Holland leans forward on her elbows and folds her hands under her chin. She sighs. “I suppose you must know by now,” she begins, “that Emily is extraordinarily advanced for her age.”

Mildred blinks. Gwendolyn chokes on her mouthful of tea. Mildred pats Gwendolyn’s back until she’s finished coughing. 

“Excuse me?” Mildred asks.

Miss Holland raises an eyebrow and half-smiles. “Surely I’m not the only teacher to tell you this?” she asks, sounding surprised. “It seems impossible to me that I’m the first one to notice how bright she is.”

“Emily’s only lived with us since June,” Gwendolyn explains. “We took her in after…after her parents…couldn’t care for her anymore.” She swallows. “You’re the first teacher she’s ever had that we’ve known.”

“Oh!” Miss Holland claps her hands together, looking positively delighted. “How fun for me! Yes,” she continues, “Emily is an incredibly precocious little girl. I’ve not completed any sort of formal assessment with her, but she can read and comprehend books far beyond her age range, and I’ve never met a child who can do mental arithmetic as quickly and accurately as Emily can. It’s quite extraordinary, actually.”

Gwendolyn and Mildred look at each other. Mildred clears her throat. “So,” she says slowly, “what…should we do?”

“Skipping a grade is always a possibility,” Miss Holland says, “though I don’t think I’d recommend that in Emily’s case; she’s a bit on the young side for 4th grade as it is, and she mentioned to me that she’s been to quite a lot of schools before this one. I’d hate to make a change just as she’s getting adjusted.”

“Yes,” Mildred says, relieved, “yes, I agree completely.” Gwendolyn nods. 

“I’d be happy to find some advanced curricula for her to work through when she finishes her work early, as she often does,” Miss Holland says, “and at home, really, the best thing you can do is read with her and take her on intellectually stimulating outings. You know, to museums and the ballet and plays and things.”

“We can do that,” Gwendolyn says. She moves her hand towards Mildred’s and they lock their pinkies together. 

Miss Holland bids them good-bye. Once they’re back in the hallway, Emily looks up from her book curiously. “What did she say about me?” she asks.

Mildred picks Emily up. Gwendolyn kisses one cheek and Mildred kisses the other. 

“She told us,” Mildred says, “that you’re absolutely perfect.”

“Though of course we already knew that,” Gwendolyn adds.

Emily beams. 

* * *

November, mean and grey and foggy. Slow, sleepy mornings and evenings spent curled up by the fire. Cranberry walnut muffins for breakfast and thick, rib-sticking stews for dinner. Wool underwear worn beneath Emily’s nightgowns; red galoshes and a bright yellow raincoat as she splashes off towards school. Multiplication tables and book reports; paper turkeys and compositions about reasons to be thankful. Spelling words, _The Secret Garden_ , a field trip to the Museum of Natural History. Mildred chaperones. The scratch-skip of records. Jump rope and hopscotch when it’s warm enough. Kisses stolen at sunrise; slow dances in the kitchen. 

One frigid Sunday morning, as Gwendolyn reads the paper and Mildred fixes breakfast, the sound of rattling, congested coughing echoes through the hallway. Emily appears in the threshold of the kitchen. In her arms she clutches her favorite teddy bear, which she inexplicably named Ira. She’s pale and sleep-rumpled, her eyes glassy and expression confused.

She immediately clambers into Gwendolyn’s lap and buries her hot little face into Gwendolyn’s collarbone, which was how both women know she is undeniably sick even before she whimpers, “I don’t feel well.” Though certainly a sweet and affectionate child, physical touch hasn’t ever been her love language of choice; it’s one reserved only for when she is in most need of comfort.

“Poor little one,” Gwendolyn coos. “What hurts?”

“Everything,” Emily says miserably, without lifting her face from Gwendolyn’s chest.

Mildred turns off the stove and sets the pot of oatmeal to the side. She joins Gwendolyn and Emily at the table. “Dear me, that’s certainly a lot of things,” Mildred says. “Could you perhaps narrow it down for us?”

“My throat,” Emily croaks, “and my ears. I can hardly hear anything out of my right one. And my head is stuffy, and it hurts here,” she gestures vaguely towards the center of her chest, “when I cough.”

Gwendolyn drops a kiss on top of Emily’s head. “I’m so sorry you’re feeling poorly, darling,” she says. “Why don’t you go and take a little nap on the sofa, hmm? We can bring you a breakfast tray when you wake up..”

“No,” Emily whines, cuddling even closer to Gwendolyn. “I want to stay here with you.”

Mildred and Gwendolyn share glances that are at once amused and sympathetic. Mildred nimbly untangles the clinging child from Gwendolyn’s arms and situates her on the living room sofa. She tucks a blanket around Emily’s shoulders and kisses her on the cheek.

“Rest,” she instructs gently, “and later you’ll have some toast and tea.”

Morning passes uneventfully into afternoon, though Mildred begins to feel small prickles of concern when Emily’s fever doesn’t respond to a cool washcloth nor to aspirin. Later she gives Emily a dose of cough syrup, which she takes without complaint in spite of the awful taste, and that in and of itself is enough to turn Mildred’s concern into full-blown anxiety. Emily is lethargic and listlessly compliant--she spends most of the day either sleeping or coughing--and absolutely nothing seems to help.

By nightfall, Emily’s temperature has reached nearly 102, and Gwendolyn and Mildred can’t and won’t stop fretting. Emily alternates between shivering and sweating; between begging weakly for more blankets and then irritably kicking them off the bed. Mildred slips back into the role of nurse, no-nonsense and competent, and Gwendolyn cuddles Emily to her every moment she gets. Mildred builds a makeshift humidifier out of a bowl, an old ripped sheet, and a fan. Gwendolyn fixes Emily endless cups of peppermint tea and watches attentively until she finishes every drop.

Mildred insists on sitting in Emily’s little reading chair until Emily is asleep. Her rest is unsettled and feverish. Mildred can hear how much Emily has to labor for each slow in-breath, then the soft wheeze that follows when she exhales. She wakes herself coughing nearly every hour. 

Mildred loses the battle to her own exhaustion around 2:30, and then suddenly Gwendolyn is tenderly rousing her and leading her to their own bed. They’ve both barely closed their eyes, or so it feels, when: “Mildred? Gwen? Are you awake?”

Emily’s hoarse whisper jerks Mildred out of her agitated sleep. She turns on her bedside lamp. “Emily?” she asks. “What is it? Where does it feel badly?”

Emily’s face is drained of all its usual color, save for the spots of fever high in her cheeks, and her pajamas are soaked in sweat. Each breath seems to cost her a Herculean effort to take, and they rattle in her chest. She doubles over with a raspy cough, tears springing to her eyes, and just manages to say, “It…hurts. Like I can’t…breathe.” 

“Mildred, what is it?” Gwendolyn demands, fear rendering her short tempered and edgy. “What’s wrong with her?”

“It sounds like croup,” Mildred says, throwing back the covers. “Gwendolyn, I need you to turn on the shower as hot as it’ll go, alright? Close the bathroom door and let the steam fill up the whole room. We need to see if we can get her to cough up what’s making it difficult to breathe or else she’ll need to go to the hospital.”

“ _Hospital_ \--?!”

“Gwendolyn!” Mildred snaps. “Now, please!”

Gwendolyn, though shaken, rushes towards the bathroom, pausing only to give Emily’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Come on, sweetheart,” Mildred says to Emily, taking her hand, “let’s go get changed into a fresh pair of pajamas, okay? You must be awfully chilled in this damp pair, poor thing.”

In the cloying heat of the bathroom, steam swirls around the three of them like fog. Emily’s bangs are plastered to her forehead and she’s still flushed, though not gasping quite so desperately as before. “Does she need the hospital?” Gwendolyn asks, worrying her lip between her teeth. 

Mildred palms Emily’s face, then shakes her head. “No,” she whispers, brushing loose strands of hair from Emily’s eyes. “Her fever is down, and her chest isn’t so congested. Besides, I worry the trip there would make her feel even worse.”

Emily coughs, then gags, and Mildred holds a towel to her mouth so she can spit. “That’s a brave girl,” Mildred comforts, rubbing her back. “Get all the bad stuff up.”

Mildred’s eyes are closing against her will. She hasn’t really taken a moment to breathe since Emily came downstairs and announced she didn’t feel well. Gwendolyn maneuvers Emily from Mildred’s arms, ignoring Mildred’s whines of protest. “Go get some sleep,” Gwendolyn instructs. “We’ll be fine, and I’ll wake you up if anything changes.”

Mildred nods and stands, stretching. She kisses Emily’s forehead. “I’ll be right in the other room, okay, sweetness?” she murmurs. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The next morning, the real morning, is Monday. Gwendolyn takes the day off from work; she calls Emily’s school and lets them know Emily will be out sick for at least the next two days, and more realistically the next three. They did manage to avoid a hospital visit; Emily’s fever broke for good around 4:00, with her airways and chest clearing around 4:30. It’s nearly 10:30 but Emily and Mildred are still asleep. Gwendolyn, exhausted beyond being tired, is fixing breakfast.

Emily spends the entire day convalescing in Mildred and Gwendolyn’s bed. She sits primly in its dead center like a tiny queen, flanked by loyal stuffed animals on either side. Gwendolyn snuggles her all day long, both of them dressed in soft flannel pajamas. Mildred pops uncertainly in and out, hovering in the doorway like a pretty, nervous bird. Emily persuades her to join them for a nap, and the three of them sleep soundly, curled close.

In the afternoon, Mildred rubs Emily’s back as Gwendolyn reads _Alice in Wonderland_ aloud. Emily gives notes until her Queen of Hearts voice is appropriately menacing. By evening, Emily is well enough to venture downstairs. Gwendolyn makes breakfast for dinner--pancakes and enormous mugs of hot chocolate--which they eat in the living room while they watch _Jack Benny_. 

Later, long after Emily has been bewitched by the cough medicine’s sleepy spell, Gwendolyn and Mildred stand side by side, washing dishes in the kitchen. “You did so well with this,” Mildred says. Her eyes are glassy. “You love her so much.”

Gwendolyn contemplates the filmy grey water and smiles. “I think that’s an understatement,” she teases.

Mildred smiles slightly, eyes cast downward. “I’m a little,” she sighs to consider what she is. Silly, perhaps. Dramatic. Neurotic. Traumatized. 

Gwendolyn elbows her gently. “We both are, I think,” she says. 

She takes the dirty plate Mildred holds. “Here,” she says, tucking penny-bright bangs behind Mildred’s ear. “Let me get it. You go on to bed.”

“Thanks.” Mildred leans in for a kiss. Gwendolyn’s hair is soft, smells of shampoo and clean, warm sheets. “Tomorrow,” she adds, her voice breathy, “I’m making breakfast.”

But she does not make breakfast. Gwendolyn is not surprised, really. She’d recognized the tell-tale signs of a cold coming on sometime yesterday afternoon—the errant sniffles, the cracks in her voice, the visible lethargy—but she hadn’t said anything; Mildred would’ve denied it anyway. 

Gwendolyn wakes to coughing, followed by a groan, followed by more coughing. She rolls over. She finds Mildred sitting up in bed, blowing her nose. Mildred looks over at Gwendolyn and glares.

“You’ve caught what Emily has, haven’t you?”

“ _No_.” Mildred’s watery eyes snap shut as she sneezes vigorously, then flops backwards onto the pillows, groaning. 

Gwendolyn sits up, too. She rubs Mildred’s back. “It’s alright, sweetheart,” she says.

“Can you get me another box of tissues? This one is out.”

She does Mildred one better and gets her the box, along with some aspirin and cough drops. She hands Mildred the pills and she dry swallows, chasing them with a sip of water from her bedside table glass. 

“You should stay away,” Mildred says, her tone practiced, and Gwendolyn knows she has been preparing this argument since she woke up unable to breathe out of her nose. “It’s a truly nasty virus, Gwendolyn; you don’t want to get it, too. We can’t both be sick at once.”

“I’ll drink some orange juice and take my chances.”

Mildred sighs. She sneezes, and again for good measure.

“Do you need me to get you anything else?”

Mildred shakes her head. 

“I’ll run to the pharmacy as soon as it opens; Emily is almost out of cough medicine anyway. For now, put this on,” Gwendolyn hands Mildred the periwinkle robe that hangs on the bedroom door, “and let me run you a bath.”

“Gwendolyn--”

The thundering of the water drowns out Mildred’s voice.

Mildred stands in the bathroom doorway. “ _Gwendolyn_ ,” she says, sharper this time, and Gwendolyn turns off the water.

“Mildred?”

Mildred is shivering, her teeth chattering. Gwendolyn is fairly certain she’s running a decent fever; she looks exhausted, so drawn. Whatever she has is hitting her fast, and Gwendolyn would be lying if she said she wasn’t worried. 

“I’m fine,” she says, and Gwendolyn has to fight the impulse to roll her eyes. “I feel fine—I...I need some sleep, some fluids. Right now I just want to check on Emily. That’s all I want. Go to work. I’ll call you later.” 

Mildred sways as she stands, fever and congestion throwing her off balance. Gwendolyn grabs her shoulders and steers her so she’s sitting on the toilet seat. 

“Mildred,” she says, “dearest darling. I think you may just be the _teensiest_ bit sick.”

Mildred pinches the bridge of her nose. She shakes her head. “I’m fine,” she says, voice thick and croaky.

“You have a fever.”

“I can handle it,” Mildred says, soft, not meeting Gwendolyn’s eyes. 

“I’ve never in my life met anyone better equipped to handle things,” Gwendolyn says, “but this time I’m doing it for you.”

Mildred shakes her head again, more vehemently. Her breath hiccups; illness or tears, Gwendolyn cannot tell. “I’ll do it myself,” she says. “No one ever did this for me, so I…I need—I have to make sure….I just…I have to do this myself. I have to, Gwendolyn.”

Gwendolyn kneels down so she is at Mildred’s eye level. She braces her hands on Mildred’s thighs. “Why?” she asks. Simple as that.

Silence. 

Gwendolyn’s knees pop when she stands up again. 

She gives Mildred space. She folds the blankets and puts the sofa back together. She settles Emily in front of the television with juice and oatmeal. She wipes down the kitchen counters. She puts away the clean dishes. She sweeps. She tidies. She boils a kettle full of water for tea. Mostly, she waits. And she waits. She is not in a rush. 

When Gwendolyn returns to the bathroom the bath water has grown cold and Mildred is crying. Sniffling into her shirtsleeve on the floor. She looks up at Gwendolyn pathetically, mouth trembling. 

“Here,” Gwendolyn joins Mildred on the tile and hands her a mug of tea. “Drink this.”  


Mildred sniffs thickly and takes a sip of tea, wincing slightly as it goes down. “Thought you left,” she says.

“Not for all the money in the world.”

Mildred makes a noise that’s somewhere between a giggle and a sob. “How’s Emily?” she asks.

“She’s fine,” Gwendolyn says. “Breathing clear with barely a low-grade fever. She says being home sick for a few days will give her a chance to work on her novel.”

Mildred closes her eyes and allows relief to wash over her like a wave. “I didn’t mean to snap at you earlier,” she says after a moment. 

“I know.”

“I was feeling sorry for myself,” she says, shrugging her right shoulder.

“Well,” Gwendolyn says, and though her voice is gravely serious her eyes dance with a mischievous light, “it happens to the best of us. Even the great and fearless Mildred Ratched.”

Mildred blinks, then considers Gwendolyn with an inscrutable expression on her face. She is weighing something, though what Gwendolyn is not sure. Suddenly, Mildred leans forward and plants a gentle kiss on Gwendolyn’s lips. She sits back, her eyes serious and bright. 

“That’s enough for now,” Mildred says firmly, and Gwendolyn is too surprised to do anything but nod. 

“I’d like to shower,” Mildred says, pulling the plug from the bathtub drain. 

Just before Gwendolyn leaves the room, she stops. Mildred’s back is to her. Gwendolyn stands with her hand on the doorknob as Mildred is lifting her pajama shirt above her head, flashing a swathe of smooth, milky skin. 

“Quit peeking,” Mildred commands without turning around. 

Gwendolyn blushes and giggles. “Honestly, Mildred,” she says, “can you blame me?” 

* * *

December. Mildred, Gwendolyn, and Emily visit a farm out in the country and cut down a Christmas tree; Emily’s first time, as she shyly informs them. Gwendolyn ties the evergreen to the car roof with rope and twine, and they sing carols the whole way home. Mildred and Emily don’t have very many of them memorized, and Gwendolyn takes it upon herself to teach them her favorites, religious and secular both. Mildred and Gwendolyn have coffee, and Emily hot chocolate, while they trim it. Gwendolyn lifts up Emily so she can set the angel on the very top. They have an Advent wreath, and each Sunday they light a candle and say a quick prayer. In those quiet moments, Emily folds her hands and bows her head, deep in thought. Mildred wonders what it is she’s praying for.

It’s the day before Emily’s winter break begins, and it’s snowing. Mildred hums “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” as she tidies. There are two trays of sugar cookies cooling on the counter. They’ll decorate them later, Mildred has decided, and she’s bought icing and sprinkles for the occasion. She has a few gifts to finish wrapping, most of them for Emily, and one or two she still needs to pick up for Gwendolyn. If she hurries, she might just be able to make it to B. Altman before Emily gets home from school.

The phone rings. Mildred picks it up. “Hello?” she answers.

She listens. She waits.

“She did _what_?”

Mildred rushes to Emily’s school. Emily is sitting on a hard wooden chair outside the principal’s door. Her lip is split and there are dried tears on her face, but she seems otherwise unharmed. There is another little girl, about Emily’s age, sitting in an identical chair approximately six feet away. She is sporting a rather spectacular black eye.

Mildred crouches down in front of Emily and examines the bloodied lip, horrified. “What _happened?_ ” she asks. 

Before Emily has a chance to answer, another woman bursts into the front office. She looks rather like the other little girl, sans the black eye, and she seems absolutely furious. She shoots Mildred a nasty look, and Mildred offers the woman her frostiest glare in return. The woman flushes angrily and looks away.

The principal--Mr. Armstrong, Mildred remembers--emerges from behind his closed door. He is tall, with cool grey eyes and a mustache. Mildred dislikes him immediately.

“Ah, good,” he says, addressing Mildred and the other woman, “you’re both here.” He opens his door wider and gestures for them both to come in.

Mr. Armstrong sits behind his desk. The woman sits in a chair across from him. Mildred opts to remain standing. She crosses her arms in front of her chest and raises her eyebrows expectantly.

Mr. Armstrong clears his throat. “It would seem,” he begins, “that the girls had something of a scuffle during recess.”

The woman purses her lips. “Your little _heathen_ ,” she hisses, glowering at Mildred, “ _attacked_ my Barbara.”

Mildred laughs humorlessly. “Are you sure?” she asks. “It looks rather mutual to me, given the state of Emily’s lip.”

Mr. Armstrong clears his throat again, and Mildred fights the impulse to tell him to _stop that this instant_. “Their teacher,” he says, “Miss Holland, told me that there was an argument that precipitated the…the physical aggression, but neither girl is willing to provide any sort of explanation regarding the details.”

Barbara’s mother rolls her eyes. “That’s because Barbara didn’t _do_ anything,” she says disdainfully, “and that…that _Emily_ doesn’t want to admit that she hits innocent little children unprovoked.”

“Oh, do shut up,” Mildred snaps before she can help herself. 

“See!” Barbara’s mother says, pointing at Mildred. “That’s _obviously_ where the girl gets it from.”

“It’s rude to point,” Mildred says, “and incorrect to end a sentence with a preposition.” 

Mildred turns to Mr. Armstrong expectantly. “Well?” she says. “What happens next?”

Mr. Armstrong folds his hands on his desk. “Given that we don’t know who initiated the…the incident,” he says, ignoring the grumbles from Barbara’s mother, “and given that the long break begins tomorrow, I think a suspension for the rest of the day--for both girls--is appropriate.”

Barbara’s mother opens her mouth, presumably to argue, but Mildred speaks before she has a chance. “That sounds fine,” she says shortly. “We’ll be going now, then.” She turns on her heel and exits the office.

Emily is silent as they walk back to the car, and silent as Mildred situates herself behind the steering wheel. She doesn’t turn the key in the ignition. She drums her fingers on her legs and she waits.

Nearly five minutes pass before Emily speaks. “She started it,” she says sullenly, staring out the window.

“Barbara?” Mildred prompts gently.

Emily nods. “She…she wouldn’t,” she blows her bangs out of her face with a short puff of air. “It’s stupid. Never mind.” 

“Sweetheart,” Mildred says, “I’m not sure anything that ends with blows being exchanged is _stupid_.”

“It _is_ though,” Emily insists. She kicks the back of the passenger seat. “She wouldn’t stop talking about Santa Claus.”

Mildred’s left eyebrow quirks upwards. “Santa Claus?” she repeats.

Emily nods. “She wouldn’t stop saying that he’s real.”

Mildred thinks for a moment. “Some children believe that,” is what she finally settles on. “It’s not necessarily a bad thing.” 

Emily shakes her head, frustrated. “No, it’s not that,” she says. She sighs. “I tried to tell her why I thought…how I _know_ that he isn’t real.”

Mildred’s stomach sinks. “What did you say?” she asks.

“I told her that there are children who don’t get presents because their families are…are poor, or maybe they don’t really even _have_ families, and if Santa were real he wouldn’t skip them because it’s not their fault,” Emily says. She picks at her thumbnail. “And she said it is _so_ their fault, and that they’d get presents if they hadn’t been bad.” She fidgets uncomfortably. “So I hit her. I didn’t even _mean_ to, honest, it just…happened.” 

Anger flares, vivid and sharp, inside Mildred’s chest. She presses her mouth into a thin line. She turns on the car and puts it in drive. She pulls out of the parking lot.

“Are you angry at me?” Emily asks tentatively.

“At you? Not in the least,” Mildred says, smiling sadly into the rearview mirror.

Emily relaxes almost imperceptibly. “Are we going home?” she asks.

“Soon,” Mildred answers. “Not just yet.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“Absolutely not,” Mildred says, then winks. 

Emily giggles.

They go to the movie theater and see a matinee of _Kiss Me Kate_. They share a tub of popcorn, their fingers greasy with the butter, and Coca-Cola. Mildred lets Emily pick out as many different candies as she wants: Zagnuts and Mary-Janes and chocolate coins and satellite wafers. The theater is nearly empty, which means Mildred and Emily can laugh at the funny parts as loudly as they like. 

The movie ends just before Gwendolyn is due to finish work. They’re both delightfully buzzy with caffeine and sugar as they drive home. They sing “Jingle Bells” and “It’s Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas”--the only two songs they both have reliably memorized--as they drive back to the house. As they turn onto their street, Emily falls quiet again.

“Are you going to tell Gwendolyn?” she asks. “About what happened?”

Mildred waits until they’re in the driveway before she answers. She turns around in her seat. “I think,” she says carefully, “for now, this can be our little secret. Just between us. Okay?”

Emily nods, her eyes shining. “Yes,” she says, “just between us.” 

* * *

On Valentine’s Day, Mildred and Gwendolyn are exiled from the kitchen by one very bossy Emily.

They briefly consider having dinner out, and leaving Emily with a babysitter--a bookish teenage girl who lived a few houses down--but Emily balks at the suggestion and that, as Mildred is fond of saying, is that.

“What do you think happened to her,” Gwendolyn whispers as they fall asleep, “that she’s so scared to spend a few hours with a babysitter?”

“I don’t know,” Mildred murmurs. “I’m not sure I want to know.” She reconsiders for a moment. “Well,” she sighs, “I _do_ want to know, but…”

Gwendolyn kisses her. “Someday,” she says.

Mildred nods and nuzzles closer to Gwendolyn. “Yes,” she agrees. “Someday.”

Emily, perhaps sensing she threw a wrench into Mildred and Gwendolyn’s Valentine’s plans, sets her mind on making them a special dinner. “I know how to cook,” she reassures them on the morning of the 14th. “I’m very good at it, actually. I learned in one of my old foster homes. I promise I won’t make a mess of the kitchen or set anything on fire.” 

“We know you won’t,” Mildred reassures as Gwendolyn looks on, amused. “Do we at least get to see a preview of the menu?” 

“I’d rather you not,” Emily says. “Do we have any cookbooks?”

It’s nearing 6:30, and Gwendolyn and Mildred are curled up on the couch, drinking cocktails that Emily had prepared for them using a recipe she’d invented herself. 

_(“They’re called Pink Whizzbangs,” Emily had explained as she handed a martini glass first to Gwendolyn, then to Mildred._

_“They certainly are very pink,” Gwendolyn said, examining her drink._

_Mildred had taken a sip of hers and raised her eyebrows. “And very whizzbangy,” she’d added, licking her lips._

_“I put in a little of everything,” Emily had said seriously._

_Gwendolyn snorted.)_

Mildred and Gwendolyn are both comfortably tipsy now, several Pink Whizzbangs in, as Emily moves around the kitchen, loudly opening and closing drawers and cabinets. She periodically mumbles things to herself, though Mildred and Gwendolyn can’t quite make out the contents of what she says.

“Are you sure you don’t need help, sweetness?” Gwendolyn calls out.

Emily sticks her head out of the kitchen. She’s wearing an apron over her new Valentine’s dress and her once neat pigtails are loose and falling out. She has a dusting of flour across one cheek and a smudge of chocolate on the other. She plants her hands on her small hips.

“Don’t even _think_ ,” she says sternly, “about coming in here.” She turns around and flounces over to the oven. “Go wash your hands,” she instructs as she peers inside it. “Dinner will be ready in about ten minutes.”

“She’s such a funny little thing,” Gwendolyn says, chuckling, as they take turns at the bathroom sink. 

“Funny how?” Mildred asks curiously. She dries her hands and pushes a mussed lock of hair behind her ear.

“She’s so…so grown up,” Gwendolyn says, “in her manner of speaking and behaving. Sometimes it’s nearly like living with a tiny adult.”

Mildred stares at Gwendolyn, and Gwendolyn shifts uncomfortably. “What?” Gwendolyn asks. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, not at all,” Mildred says. She kisses Gwendolyn’s cheek. “That just never occurred to me.” 

“Really?”

“Mmm,” Mildred says, “because when I was Emily’s age, I was exactly the same way.”

The table is set with the china Gwendolyn got when she married Trevor, which makes her smile. Emily has lit two taper candles and attempted to fold their cloth napkins into something resembling swans. She’s made a chain out of strips of pink and red construction paper and hung it over the windows. Taped onto the walls are carefully cut hearts of varying sizes, and there are handmade cards, covered in glitter, sitting at Mildred’s and Gwendolyn’s seats. 

“Does it look alright?” Emily asks nervously.

Gwendolyn and Mildred squish her between them in a gigantic hug. “It’s stunning,” Mildred says, and she means it.

Dinner is Waldorf salad, boxed macaroni and cheese, and baked chicken. It’s all surprisingly delectable--Emily is as competent a chef as she promised--and if the chicken is a little bit dry none of them really notice. For dessert Emily made a fudge cake, the rich icing dripping off the sides, and they each eat a slice, and then a second one, until they’re so full they practically can’t move.

Emily starts to clear the plates, but Gwendolyn shakes her head. “The person who cooks _never_ has to clean,” she says warmly. “House rules.” 

She kisses Emily. “Go watch _I Love Lucy_ ,” she says. “We’ll join you once we’ve washed up.”

Gwendolyn begins to gather the plates. “Coming?” she asks as she makes her way to the kitchen. 

“In a moment,” Mildred says.

She opens the card Emily made her, nearly forgotten under her plate.

_Dear Mildred,_

_I am writing this because I would like to say Happy Valentine’s Day. I would also like to say that I love you, but that is hard to say out loud I think. It is nice to see it written down though. I am so happy every day that I get to live here with Gwendolyn and with you. Miss Holland says we should always tell people that we apreciate them. That is good advise and I like it._

_Sometimes I think of you and Gwendolyn as mothers. Even though I call you Mildred and Gwendolyn and not mother. I do not remember my real mother becus she died when I was a baby. I do not like talking about it becus it does not make me sad and I think it is suposed to. But I am not sure how to be sad about someone I did not know._

_Gwendolyn said that you do not have your mother and father ether and that maybe some day we can talk about it together. I would like to do that but only when you are ready. Do you ever feel sad becus you are not sad that you do not know your mother? It is a lonely feeling but maybe we can be lonely together._

_I am not very good at finishing my writing. Miss Holland is helping me become better at that. She also says my spelling has much improved. The only speller better then me is a boy called William but I think I can beat him if I practice. I do not like it when a boy is better than me at something._

_I love you very much and I hope you like this card. It feels happy to write down that I love you. I think I will do it more._

_Love your daughter,  
Emily_

_P.S.  
I hope that it is ok that I said I am your daughter. If it is not please tell me so you do not feel bad._

Mildred holds the card to her chest. She thinks, for a moment, that she would like to eat it, to make it become part of her body forever. She closes her eyes. She thinks, perhaps, that it might already be. 

* * *

“They’re doing a play,” Emily announces one early April evening during dinner, “at school.”  


“How exciting!” Gwendolyn says. “Do you know which play it is?”

Emily nods. “ _A Midsummer’s Night Dream_ ,” she says, “by Shakespeare. Do you know it?”

“Yes,” Gwendolyn says. “Do you?”

Emily nods again. “I’ve read it before.”

“You have?” Mildred asks, exchanging a glance with Gwendolyn. 

“Yes,” Emily says. “One of the homes I was at before here had a big book of Shakespeare plays. I read that one, and _The Tempest_ , and _Romeo and Juliet_ before I had to leave and go somewhere else. I didn’t understand all of the words because I was only little, maybe seven, but I still liked reading them.” 

She spears a forkful of green beans and chews them thoughtfully. “Should I go out for it?” she asks once she’s swallowed.

“Why not?” Gwendolyn says. “You’re wonderful at reading aloud, and you’re even better at doing voices than I am.”

“That’s not so hard, though,” Emily says under her breath, and Mildred chokes on a stifled giggle. She pushes mashed potatoes and roast beef around her plate. “What if I don’t get any part?”

“I suppose you’ll just have to feel disappointed until you don’t anymore,” Mildred says, smiling softly at Emily, “and try again some other time.”

Emily decides that the character she’d most like to play is Puck, because she thinks he’s the funniest, and, as she wisely points out, she is already fairy-sized. She practices reading through some of his lines with Gwendolyn on the nights leading up to the auditions, and Gwendolyn gently corrects her when she mispronounces words. Gwendolyn seems nearly as excited by the prospect of the play as Emily; she’s a great lover of theatre, Mildred knows, and she’s pleased Gwendolyn gets to share this passion with Emily.

It helps that Emily genuinely is an excellent performer. Mildred might be biased, but Emily does seem to have a much keener grasp on emotion and speaking with expression than most other children her age. When she compliments Emily’s delivery of a monologue, there’s no humoring in it. Mildred wonders what other surprises Emily has in store for them. She wonders, if she’d had a mother, how she might’ve surprised her.

Emily’s preparations pay off, because when the cast list is posted it’s her name that follows Puck. For weeks, the only thing Emily will talk about is _Midsummer_. She recites her lines while she sets the table, cleans her room, brushes her teeth, makes her bed. Mildred takes her to the grocery store and she practices her choreography up and down the fluorescent lit aisles. She reads through the play so many times that she very nearly memorizes the entire thing.

Gwendolyn sews Emily’s costume: a draped tunic made out of gauzy green fabric she buys at a department store. She makes a headpiece out of an old headband and oversized silk flowers. There are fittings every night the week before the show; Emily stands on a step stool as Gwendolyn pins and pulls and mutters and adjusts. She stays up late working on it, and when Mildred quietly suggests she might come to bed, Gwendolyn demurs.

“I want it to be perfect,” she says. “She deserves for it to be perfect.”

Emily’s hair is longer now, just past her shoulders, and on opening night Mildred styles it in a loose braid, with silk ribbons weaved in and out. She does Emily’s makeup; it’s simple but pretty--gold eyeshadow, a swipe of mascara, a bit of blush, pink lipstick. Mildred thinks it makes her look like a little doll. They take photos in the garden with Gwendolyn’s camera until it runs out of film. Mildred’s favorite, though, is the candid she snaps just before they leave; Emily, halfway up the sycamore tree in the front lawn, staring out towards the sunset.

 _Backstage_ is a 5th grade classroom. Gwendolyn and Mildred leave Emily there, kiss her, and wish her luck, which makes Emily huff.

“It’s _break a leg_ ,” she corrects, long suffering. “You’re not supposed to say _good luck_ , because that means something bad will happen. Honestly, you two. Everyone knows that.”

They find their seats in the audience, which is the cafeteria filled with several dozen metal folding chairs. There is a table with cookies and juice at the back of the room, and two children who look to be about around eleven handing out programs. The cellophane wrapper on the flowers they bought for Emily crinkles as Mildred fidgets. She grabs for Gwendolyn’s hand. Gwendolyn takes it and squeezes, three times, before letting go.

“She’s going to be brilliant,” Gwendolyn says, reading her mind, just like she always does.

Mildred murmurs something in response. She takes slow breaths and tries to control the nausea rumbling in her stomach.

The lights go down and the curtain goes up. The dimness, the hush, it lends the entire evening elements of ethereality, of magic. The set is made of brightly painted plywood and papier mache, messy and made with great care and affection by small hands. Mildred thinks it looks absolutely perfect. 

Emily doesn’t appear onstage until the beginning of act II. When she takes center stage Mildred covers her mouth against a gasp. Who, she wonders, is the bewitching fey creature standing so delicately, illuminated by the spotlight? It’s Emily and it’s not Emily; she’s a changeling, just like Puck himself.

“The king doth keep his revels here tonight,” 

Emily recites, mischief glittering behind her eyes.

“Take heed the queen come not within his sight;  
For Oberon is passing fell and wrath,  
Because that she as her attendant hath  
A lovely boy, stolen from an Indian king;  
She never had so sweet a changeling;  
And jealous Oberon would have the child  
Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild;  
But she perforce withholds the loved boy,  
Crowns him with flowers and makes him all her joy:  
And now they never meet in grove or green,  
By fountain clear, or spangled starlight sheen,  
But, they do square, that all their elves for fear  
Creep into acorn-cups and hide them there.”

Eventually the play ends. The cast takes their bows, and when Emily steps forward she receives a standing ovation. Gwendolyn hollers out a few admiring _whoops_ , and Emily beams, bright pink, until she steps back into line with the others.

Afterwards they go out for dinner, to the beautiful French bistro where Gwendolyn and Mildred celebrated their second anniversary. Mildred and Gwendolyn give Emily the flowers and shower her with compliments. They order Emily endless Shirley Temples and crème brûlée for dessert. Gwendolyn shows Emily how to crack the top of it with her spoon, and Mildred wishes she had a camera to capture the look of utter delight on Emily’s face when the custard oozes out. 

“What if I become an actress someday?” Emily asks between spoonfuls of dessert. “Do you think I could?”

“Emily, my love,” Gwendolyn says, “I think you can do just about anything if you set your mind to it.” 

* * *

The school year ends, and Emily finishes the 4th grade. She receives certificates for citizenship, honor roll, and penmanship. They go out for ice cream to celebrate her excellent final report card. Miss Holland writes Emily a letter, and Emily refuses to let Gwendolyn and Mildred see the contents. She says it’s too special. She takes to sleeping with it under her pillow.

Summer stumbles in on the heels of a final late spring frost, bedraggled and tired and determined. Blue and purple wildflowers dapple the grass in the front yard, and in the mornings their petals sparkle with dew from the night before. Gwendolyn spends her weekends in the garden, planting black-eyed Susans, hibiscus, gladiolus, daylilies. Emily develops an interest in horticulture and follows behind Gwendolyn as she works, asking questions about everything she does, questions Gwendolyn never tires of answering.

Suddenly, suddenly, it has been a year since Emily came to live with them, even though it’s only been weeks, days, hours, Mildred could swear it. Mildred wakes early on the anniversary; she squints at the alarm clock on her bedside table. 5:09. She smiles to herself, then gently elbows Gwendolyn, who snuffles and turns over, groaning. 

“Wake up,” Mildred says, teasing and giddy, “it’s been a year.” 

Gwendolyn opens a single eye and yawns.

Emily, as if conjured, pads into the bedroom. She stands in the doorway expectantly until Mildred waves her over. She dives onto the bed and snuggles beneath the covers, squeezed between Mildred and Gwendolyn.

“It’s today,” she whispers.

Gwendolyn pulls Emily close and kisses her on the cheek. “A whole year,” she murmurs. “Can you believe it?”

Emily presses her face into Gwendolyn’s ribcage. “I was so scared,” she says, “when I first got here.”

Mildred straightens Emily’s pajama top. “I know,” she says quietly. “We were, too.” She cups the back of Emily’s neck. “Why don’t you go back to sleep for a little while, sweetheart? It’s still so early.”

Emily is valiantly fighting the waves of drowsiness threatening to overcome her, but her left eye is already closed. “Can I stay here?” she murmurs, accepting her fate.

Mildred strokes Emily’s hair. “If you promise to sleep,” she allows. 

She watches, transfixed, as Emily’s breaths even out and slow. Emily, who has lived through more grief and pain in nine short years than most adults do in a lifetime. Emily, who is not of them but is still completely and irrevocably and hopelessly theirs. Emily, who for the rest of her life will know nothing but beauty, nothing but sunrises and strawberry malteds and pastel carousel ponies and new boxes of crayons and half-awake lullabies. Come hell or high water, Mildred will give her this. It’s the bedtime story she tells herself.

Once Emily is well and truly sleeping, Mildred picks her up and carries her back to her bedroom. She murmurs something as Mildred tucks her in. 

“What is it?” Mildred murmurs back, half-expecting an answer. “Tell me all about it.”

She drifts like a ghost back into bed with Gwendolyn. Gwendolyn cups her thigh, the spot where it curves out and slips beneath the band of her underwear. Mildred shivers delightedly, goosebumps rising on her bare calves. She is already wet, hot and tangy with arousal. She buries her face in Gwendolyn’s neck, smelling laundry soap and sweat and the confused tangle of leftover dreams.

When they make love it is sweet and drowsy, and when Mildred comes it is so soft and delicate she almost cannot bear it. Gwendolyn pants, her breath warm on Mildred’s electrified skin. 

“Gosh,” Mildred whispers, “but you gardeners certainly know how to charm a lady. Knock me off my feet, why don’t you?”

Gwendolyn kisses her neck but doesn’t reply. Outside their bedroom window crickets are chirping, the world still waking up. Mildred closes her eyes. They have time. It’s astounding, Mildred thinks, that time is something that they’ve been given.

Later that evening, much later, Gwendolyn wakes Mildred well past midnight. Mildred pouts, grumpy at being denied her beauty rest.

“Do I need to get dressed?” she grumbles.

“Thankfully not,” Gwendolyn says, tugging at the little ribbon on Mildred’s silk nightgown. “Go get Emily. I’ll meet you both downstairs.”

She extends a hand and pulls Mildred into the floor. Mildred notices that Gwendolyn’s toenails are painted pale pink, and this simple, girlish fact of her makes Mildred ache in ways she can’t quite explain. Wouldn’t want to explain even if she could.

Gwendolyn gathers an old blanket and a camping lantern from the utility closet. A bottle of insect repellant. A few pillows. Mildred, Emily leaning half-asleep against her, is already waiting by the front door by the time Gwendolyn is ready.  


Emily’s hair is damp with sweat and curling at the nape of her neck. She wordlessly holds out her arms towards Gwendolyn, demanding a hug. Mildred is wearing a pair of yellow slippers. Her steps pad gently behind Gwendolyn as they head out the front door. The screen shuts _slam-bang!_ behind them.

Outside, the world glows silvery with moonbeams. The night is windless; the sky is as smooth and clear as a wonderland looking glass. The air is muggy and thick, sweetened with little white flowers. Mildred can hear bullfrogs trilling, cicadas buzzing as they fall out of the trees. 

“Here is perfect,” Gwendolyn says once they’re in the backyard. She spreads the blanket out on the grass and sits, patting the spot next to her. Mildred joins her, followed by Emily. Mildred cocks her head to the side, but says nothing. Waits.

Gwendolyn lies back, tipping her chin towards the stars. She turns her head so she’s looking at Mildred. “Perseids,” she says, offering the explanation for which Mildred did not ask.

Mildred lies back, too. Emily settles herself between them. “I’d forgotten they come this time of year,” Mildred says, voice husky from drowsiness. “It’s a good night for them.”

Gwendolyn tells them of the constellations, all the old stories, and when she forgets a detail she makes it up. A mythology just for the three of them. Mildred wonders how they look to the stars; she thinks, from that distance, anyone would look so small and breakable. Well, so what if she is breakable. She’s been broken before and she’s still here. She’s not afraid.

Suddenly--a flash. Emily gasps and points. Above them, spangled meteors, silver bullets, shooting through the sky. Mildred thinks she might remember doing this as a child, maybe with Edmond, before everything turned ugly and wrong. She thinks that it couldn’t have possibly happened that way. She thinks that, maybe, all of this is invented. She thinks, really, maybe it doesn’t matter if it was real at all.

Something that Mildred knows for certain is true: when she was very, very young she thought if she reached high enough she could pull down bits of stars and sky.

She thinks: this, now, is close enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I know I have sickfic requests, and I promise I shall get to them! I just had the inspiration for this fic and felt compelled to write it. 
> 
> YES, I know the Perseids are not in early June, but I wanted to end the fic with them watching a meteor shower and it had to end with the year anniversary of adopting Emily, so let's just pretend that they're in early June, 'kay?


End file.
